Aftermath in Abilene
by Swissmounty
Summary: This is a WHN to the 1967 movie "Gunfight in Abilene". Main characters: Sheriff Cal Wayne (Bobby Darin); Deputy Ward Kent (Don Galloway); Amy Wayne (Emily Banks); Annie Decker. The story was written by Hamlette (78.69% approximately) and MountySwiss (21.31%, if calculated correctly).
1. Chapter 1

**Scene 1**

"Get him a doctor! Get him a doctor!"

The words echoed off the blue-flowered wall paper, the worn chest of drawers, the closed door. Cal Wayne sat bolt upright, eyes wide, hands clutching at the air, trying to stop those Yankees from taking Dave. It took several seconds for his surroundings to register. Yellow curtains. A four-poster bed. White sheets. No trees, no Yankees. No Dave.

"Cal?" Amy sat up beside him, put a hand on his right arm.

"I'm all right." He tried to slow his breathing, stop his heart's erratic galloping.

"What's wrong?"

Cal pulled his arm away from her hand. "I said I'm all right."

"Cal-"

He swung his legs out from under the white sheets and walked to the window, moving carefully still. The wound in his left shoulder didn't pain him all the time anymore, but a sudden move would still start it shooting sparks. The way it felt right then, he must have been thrashing around a while before he woke.

Cal stared out the window at the faint outline of outbuildings and fences in the bright moonlight. He'd hoped once he confessed to Grant Evers and Amy about how Dave had died, that the nightmares would end. When they didn't, he'd hoped instead that they'd end when he and Amy married. Clearly, that hadn't changed anything either. Funny, how the nightmares hadn't started until he'd returned to Abilene. In that Yankee prison, he'd slept like a child. It was other guys who'd muttered or called out in the night, not him.

Now they came almost every night. Sometimes it was a cavalry charge, or a lot of artillery fire coming down everywhere. But usually it was Dave. The look on Dave's face when Cal fired, his last words, the feel of him dead in Cal's arms. The Yankees taking his body. Over and over, night after night.

He could hear Amy getting out of bed too. He expected her to come try to comfort him again, and flinched in anticipation of her touch. Instead, he heard the door creak open. Surprised, he turned and watched her slip out of the room, her simple white nightgown looking almost angel-like in the near dark. As she left, he felt something inside himself crumble. What was wrong with him? Why was it that, whenever he woke like this, sweating and trembling in the dark, he couldn't bear the touch of this woman he loved. How long would it take before she'd tire of this and leave for good? Was she even coming back now? Or would she spend the night in the parlor, in her mother's old rocking chair maybe?

Cal turned back to the window, hands clenched. It wasn't supposed to be like this. When you survived a war, when you came home and married the girl you'd dreamed of for so long, why, weren't you supposed to be happy about all that? When would he lose this numb feeling, this cloud of uncertainty that seemed to linger over his whole world? He and Amy had been married for over a week now. Shouldn't he feel happier about that?

The door creaked again, and Cal whirled, hand reaching instinctively for the holster hanging over the back of the chair in the corner.

Amy said, "I thought you might like a drink of water." She held out a glass.

"Oh. Thank you." He took it from her, drank it off slowly. Now that the water was here, he realized how thirsty he'd been. "Thank you," he said again when he'd finished it.

Amy sat down on her side of their bed. "I'm glad I could help somehow, anyway."

Cal put the glass down on her dresser. He lowered himself to his side, half-turned away from her. "I'm sorry. Amy, I can't seem to…"

"I know."

Cal felt the bed move as she lay back down, and waited until she'd pulled the sheets up before he lay back down himself. He tried to get comfortable on his back, find the right way to lie so his shoulder wouldn't throb after only a few minutes. He'd always slept on his side before, but the bullet hole wouldn't let him do that comfortably yet.

Amy turned toward him, and this time instead of pulling away, he drew her close with his good arm. Who could have guessed that the sweetest part of being married would be the way her head felt on his chest, her forehead against his cheek, her arm across him, his arm around her shoulders. It was the closest he got to truly happy, those moments of quiet companionship before they drifted off to sleep.

At least the nightmares usually came only once in a night. Maybe when the unrest in town was settled, once Cal could officially turn over his sheriff's badge again, they'd end for good.

* * *

**Scene 2**

Ward Kent stood at the doorway to the sheriff's office, looking out into the night. The town was quiet. No trouble. Two rather ridiculous figures went by. One was short and ball-shaped, and in his long light-brown coat he reminded Ward of a potato in a nightgown. The other was about Ward's size and probably even thinner. He looked like an upright length of twine. They were trying to keep one another on their feet. They never seemed to know night from day, and they never knew when they'd had enough. But they didn't make any trouble.

Ward had spent the evening playing cards in the saloon, and he'd won a little. He usually did. Nobody ever noticed that he was quite good at remembering cards and reading people. But he always saw to it that the stakes remained small. For one thing, he didn't want to lose any money on cards, no more than what he spent on liquor or food. He'd started putting some aside for a piece of land. One day. Also, it was the best way to prevent trouble. Men who lost nickels didn't cause trouble. Men who lost dollars did. It was one of the reasons why he played cards: to keep the stakes small. The other was that he heard a lot more playing cards then staying in the office or patrolling, since the men trusted a poker buddy. It was his contribution, small as it was, to keeping the town as peaceful as possible.

And now he was looking out into the quiet night. It wasn't what his father had had in mind when he christened him 'Ward'. He had hoped that Ward would follow in his footsteps and the ones of his grandfather. Well, he hadn't. Ward – a warden. A watchman. His father'd had something different in mind with the name, but Ward figured at least law enforcement was something decent. Necessary. Trying to keep a town quiet. To protect the weak against the bullies. Maybe his father would have agreed after all.

Ward knew that Cal wanted to step down as sheriff. But he also knew that he could not do the job without him. Before Cal, there had been Slade, and Grant behind him to provide the authority. Now there was Cal, who was strong enough all alone. Ward knew that he couldn't do the job. That he was a coward. He couldn't have taken on Loop like Cal had done. He was afraid. He just tried to hide it behind a façade of clownery. Surely Cal knew that.

Ward was glad that everything was real quiet outside – but he didn't like that it was quiet inside the office too. Not like before, when Cal had still been there, quiet and companionable. Cal, who used to cry out in his sleep. Was he still having nightmares, now that he was married? Hopefully not, or he would scare the daylights out of Amy. Poor guy. Poor Amy, too.

One would have thought that Ward was glad not to have his sleep interrupted by Cal's shouting, but he wasn't. He missed Cal. He'd become the closest thing to a big brother he'd ever had. Well, not that big physically, but still a big brother.

Thinking of Cal getting married, he couldn't help dreaming of the one woman he wanted to be with... Annie. He had fallen in love with her at first sight, or so it felt now. Annie Decker - a slender, beautiful girl. Then he had learned that she was married and had a little son. Now Cord Decker was dead, and she was a widow. He might have tried to court her. But - had Cord told her what he had done? Or rather, what he hadn't done. Ward had wanted to intervene when Loop and company had confronted Cord and Cal the day they had come back from the war, but Slade had kept him back, and Ward had just accepted it. Hadn't fought for what was right. Had drawn in his horns, as always. He was a coward. Had always been one. A runaway kid. And worse… he didn't even want to think of that. _O Lord, why couldn't I have more guts?_

Angrily Ward shook his head. Why was he still talking to HIM? He disowned the Lord. Real men didn't want to be involved with HIM. Ward sure didn't, not anymore, not unless HE would prove to Ward that HE cared, that HE hadn't just forgotten about him.

Ward sighed. There wasn't much left of this night. If he wanted to be fit the next morning, he would have to hurry to the rendezvous with the fleas on his mattress.


	2. Chapter 2

**Scene 3**

Cal awoke to bright sunshine and a lonely bed. Amy was up first, as usual. Cal still hadn't fathomed how she could slip out without him feeling or hearing it. He dressed quickly and headed down the narrow stairs and around the corner to the kitchen. Then he paused in the doorway to watch Amy as she stirred something on the stove. Why did mornings always feel so awkward? Like they were two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Did it take this long for everyone to adjust to a shared life?

"Morning," he said. Then he suddenly realized he hadn't buttoned his shirt cuffs, and busied himself with them. Standing there in the doorway, feeling like a boy at his first barn dance. Shy around his own wife. Didn't stand to reason.

"Good morning." As usual, Amy appeared composed, at ease, as if she had nothing else on her mind than turning bacon and cracking eggs. Cal could never figure how she managed that eternal serenity. Was it from all the years of tending a father prone to drink? No, Cal could remember before her mother died, and even then Amy had been composed. The woman radiated calm. If only some of it would stick to him - he felt jumpy as a wet cat.

Amy added, "Coffee's ready."

"Been up long?" He crossed the small room, took a mug from the shelf by the sink.

"Not really."

Cal turned to the stove to get the coffee pot from where it was warming and nearly collided with Amy as she reached for a plate. "Sorry!" He hurried out of her way, then waited, empty cup in hand, for her to finish scooping eggs and bacon onto two plates. Only once she'd moved over to the table did he make a second attempt at the coffee pot. He always seemed in the way there in the small kitchen, and yet he didn't like to just sit and wait to be served, either. Amy was his wife, not his waitress. So he waited until she sat down before pulling out his own chair and taking a seat.

They ate in silence for the first minute or two, exchanging surreptitious glances. Finally, Cal put down his fork. He meant to make a comment about the weather, but different words formed on his tongue unbidden. "I didn't expect it would be like this. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Amy looked genuinely surprised. "What for?"

"This isn't what you expected when we married, I know."

"What did I expect?"

"Not a husband who can't sleep through the night, who can't even… can't even talk to his own wife in the morning without feeling like some fool schoolboy."

To his surprise, Amy smiled. "As to that, no. But I think it's only natural it should take some time to get to know each other again. You were gone nearly four years." She paused, then added, "Do you wish we'd waited longer?" Her smile faded. "Were _you_ expecting something different?"

"I don't know. I didn't think much about it, I guess." Which was a lie. He'd thought of it thousands of times, imagined breakfasts, suppers, church on Sunday, hot spring noons when she'd bring him a lunch as he worked out in the fields, and so much else besides. It was all he'd ever wanted, all he'd thought about while he festered in that Yankee prison. And this was not how he'd imagined it.

Amy reached across the table and put a hand over one of his. "Give it some time, Cal. Give us some time."

"What if-" He bit back the words, refused to say them.

"What if the dreams don't stop? Is that it? You think they bother me?"

"Don't they?"

"I hate them. I hate that you've seen things, done things that haunt you this way. I hate the war for how it's hurt you. But if you think those nightmares will drive me away, then we really do need to get reacquainted."

Cal turned his hand over so it was palm-to-palm with hers. He wrapped his fingers around hers. "Thank you."

They never did get around to eating their breakfast. But that seemed to happen with some frequency those first couple of weeks. Cal could never thank his new father-in-law enough for deciding to spend a month with his cousin and leave the house to the newlyweds.

* * *

**Scene 4**

"You are no better than any human, you old nag! Always taking advantage when a lawman looks the other way," grumbled Ward at his horse. He had fallen flat on his belly into the fresh straw he'd just spread out in the stable, all because Rattler had pushed him unexpectedly. Which actually wasn't the horse's fault. He did that all the time, and Ward should have watched out.  
Throwing the gelding an annoyed glance, he stood up, not bothering to brushing off his pants.  
Rattler seemed to smirk.  
The horse was about as old as himself – twenty-one – although Ward's teeth were fortunately in much better shape than Rattler's. Apart from his inclination to knock his owner over at any given opportunity, he had two or three other weaknesses, and he was neither a beauty nor particularly strong or fast. Nevertheless Ward would not have sold him for a pot full of gold.  
Tenderly he caressed his head, and Rattler pushed his nose against the deputy's hand, more gently this time. "Good guy," whispered Ward into his ear. "Let's get you fed and then see what the day will bring."


	3. Chapter 3

**Scene 5**

Cal arrived in Abilene somewhat later than he had the morning or two previously. He left his horse at the livery stable and walked to the sheriff's office, exchanging a "good morning" here and there with various good citizens. Only the good citizens ever seemed to be up and about much before noon, he'd noticed. When he reached the office, he was surprised to find his deputy, Ward, outside, sitting in the chair they usually used to keep an eye on restless cowhands down the street.

"Morning," Cal said.

"Not for much longer." Ward looked up at him sideways and grinned.

"Any special reason you're out here instead of inside?" He held up a hand. "No, don't tell me… a skunk tried to sneak in the back."

"The front."

Cal raised his eyebrows. He'd been joking, figuring Ward was there just to give him a hard time about showing up late again. "Is that so?"

"In a way." Ward stood up and moved away from the office door. He beckoned for Cal to join him at the edge of the sidewalk. Softly, he said, "Frobisher's in there."

Frobisher had been Grant Evers' secretary, assistant, errand-boy. Cal was puzzled as to why the man would seek him out. "He say what he wanted?"

"No." Ward stretched the word into three syllables. "He said he'd like to speak to you, and I didn't feel the need to press."

"Thanks a lot." Cal grimaced. There was nothing for it but to see what the man wanted. He took a deep breath before walking to the door and opening it.

Frobisher sat ramrod straight in the chair in front of Cal's desk, his hands folded in his lap. He wore his habitual worried expression, eyebrows raised and puckered. His white shirt was spotless, the black sleeve garters exactly aligned with each other, the ends of his string tie precisely even. "Good morning, Sheriff," he said in his creaky voice. Cal would have blamed the creakiness on age, except that even when Cal was a kid, Frobisher's voice had sounded like a door in need of oiling.

"Morning." Cal crossed to his desk, noticed an envelope lying in the middle of it, and figured the mail train must have gotten in early. Well, there was no sense drawing this out. He sat down and put his gloved hands flat on the desk in front of him. "What's on your mind?"

Frobisher stared at him unblinkingly for several silent seconds. Then he pointed to the envelope on Cal's desk. "That is."

"This?" Cal picked up the envelope and turned it over twice. It was sealed, and entirely blank. "What is it?"

"It's Mr. Evers' last will and testament, that's what it is." Frobisher shook his head sorrowfully. "No one has inquired about it. No one has notified next of kin of his death. No one seems to have turned one thought to the fact that Mr. Evers is dead. Two weeks it's been now."

Cal felt momentarily ashamed as he realized Frobisher was right. "Why, I guess it takes some time to digest." Grant had been his friend, once. They hadn't been close like Cal and Grant's younger brother Dave, but still, the three of them had had some fine times as boys. Swimming in the river, chasing strays, hunting coyotes. And Grant had never blamed Cal for his foolish prank that had cost Grant his right hand.

And yet, all Cal had felt when Grant died was relief. Not just because Grant had stood between him and Amy. Not just because of Grant's underhanded dealings with Abilene's farmers and small ranchers. Somehow, Grant's presence had always felt oppressive, like a grownup looking down at the doings of small children, waiting for them to make a wrong move. Half the reason Cal had made his bid to be sheriff back before the war had been to show Grant he wasn't some fool kid anymore, to get him to stop watching and frowning at whatever Cal and Dave did.

Still, none of that meant he shouldn't have felt some regret at the passing of this man he'd known for most of his life. But no, he'd been wrapped up in Amy, in being sheriff again, in stopping a range war.

Cal realized he was staring off into space, with Frobisher watching him. He looked down at the envelope and said, "I'm sorry." Whether he was apologizing to Frobisher or to the memory of Grant Evers, he wasn't certain. "Why bring this to me?"

"You were Mr. Evers' friend. You were Dave's friend. They've got no kin here in Abilene. Who else should I bring it to?"

Cal frowned down at the envelope. What did it contain? Something to get the cowmen and farmers all heated up again? The fingers on Cal's right hand twitched. "We ought to do this in Judge Fennis' office. Do it proper."

Frobisher came as near to smiling as Cal had ever seen. "I told him. I told Mr. Evers you were still his friend."

Cal could think of no response, so he nodded once. He picked up the envelope and stood. "No time like the present." He didn't wait to see if Frobisher was following, but headed out the door.

Ward tipped his chair forward onto all four legs. "Going someplace?"

"Down to see Judge Fennis, that's all."

"Want some company?"

"Couldn't hurt." Cal smiled half a smile. "Might even help."

Ward rose lazily and stretched. "What're we waiting for, then?"

"You."

Ward fell into step with Cal as they walked down the sidewalk, Frobisher trailing behind. "You gonna tell me what this is all about?"

Cal raised the envelope. "Grant left a will."

Ward whistled. "And nobody's opened it?"

"That's where we're headed."

"I'm glad I came along – I wouldn't have missed this for anything."

"Really?"

"It'll give me advance warning. If this town busts wide open again, I can be long gone before the shooting starts."

Cal chuckled.

"When are you gonna believe me? I'm no hero." Ward tried to sound like he was joking, but something in his tone must have alerted Cal he wasn't. Not entirely.

Cal stopped walking just before they reached the white-washed courthouse. "Every man wants to save his own skin, Ward. Doesn't make him a coward. Makes him human." He grinned suddenly. "I tell you what – maybe we'll both leave town."

"Yeah, I can tell you're real anxious to leave Mrs. Wayne behind." Ward grinned back. "Takes you longer every morning to say good-bye."

"I could take her with me." Cal started walking again, headed for the side door marked 'Judge' in stern black letters.

"You're a mighty generous man, Sheriff."

"Shut up." Cal reached the door and hesitated. "Here we go," he said softly. Then he turned the doorknob and pushed open the door.

* * *

**Scene 6**

Cal had never liked Judge Fennis. Maybe it was the way he pursed his lips before every sentence, as if he thought every single thing he said was so important he had to consider it carefully. He even did that before saying, "Good morning, Sheriff. Can I be of some assistance?"

"I surely do hope so, Your Honor." Cal held the door open with his foot so Ward and Frobisher could enter the dark office too. That was another reason he didn't like Judge Fennis, Cal realized. He sat at his oversized desk in this windowless office, only a couple of smoky lamps for light, like some kind of animal huddled in its lair, waiting for prey to wander past. Of course, it didn't help that Cal knew Fennis had taken bribes from Grant Evers and some of the other cattlemen. What kind of justice would a man like that administer? You couldn't even call it justice. After being sworn in by Judge Fennis, Cal had avoided him as much as he could.

And yet, here he was now, bringing this so-called judge a document that could end the tenuous peace that they'd worked so hard to create. To maintain. Maybe Cal should have just opened Grant's will in his office. Why had he brought it here, anyway?

As Cal held up the envelope for Fennis to see, he realized he was just delaying the inevitable, trying to put off finding out what the will contained. Grant Evers had owned one of the biggest cattle spreads in Kansas, and if he'd named no heir, all-out war could erupt between the ranchers and farmers, each seeking to control that land.

"What's this?" Judge Fennis reached across his desk, took the envelope, and turned it over and over in his hands, squinting at it.

Frobisher spoke up from behind Cal. "That's Mr. Grant's last will and testament, that is."

"Indeed?" Judge Fennis tapped it on the top of his desk twice. "And why has this not been brought to anyone's attention before now? Mr. Grant has been gone for some time." He looked at Cal over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles.

Frobisher said, "I had hoped someone would have taken it upon themselves to notify Mr. Grant's next of kin, and I could deliver it to them." He glared at Cal. "But no one has felt that necessary."

Judge Fennis switched his gaze to Frobisher. "And why did you not notify them?"

"I didn't know who to notify." Frobisher sounded prim, but also… embarrassed? Why? Embarrassed that he'd worked for Grant, and Grant's father before him, and not known where their extended family could be reached?

"I see." Judge Fennis reached for his letter opener. He slit the envelope slowly, as if he was either trying to prolong his audience's agony, or was himself apprehensive about the will's contents.

Cal glanced over at where Ward stood by the door. In the dim lamplight, he couldn't tell if his deputy was as anxious about this as he was. But even if he'd been able to see Ward clearly, he might not have known – Ward had a poker face like no other.

Judge Fennis opened the envelope at last and drew out a single sheet of folded paper. He smoothed it out on his desk, glanced over it, then looked at Cal over the top of his spectacles again. "It's signed, dated, and witnessed. Seems to be in order. Just one small problem with it, as far as I can see."

"Which is?"

Judge Fennis read it aloud:

_I, Grant Evers, being of sound mind and body, do bequeath my land, my money, my livestock, my house, and all my other worldly goods to my brother, David Evers. _

He leaned back in his chair. "Sheriff Wayne, are you prepared to swear to it that Dave Evers is dead?"

Cal licked his lips nervously. Echoes of that fateful night filled his ears, the silence, the gunshot, Dave's weak voice calling his name. He nodded. "I am."

Over by the door, Ward shifted position. Cal glanced at him, wondering if he would add any of what he knew. But the deputy stayed silent.

Judge Fennis said, "To your knowledge, any of you, did Grant Evers have any other living relatives?"

Cal said, "No, sir. Their folks died before the war."

"Where did they come from? Any uncles or cousins?"

Frobisher said, "Not that I know of, Judge."

Cal added, "Old Mr. Evers was an only child. Told me once that he was glad neither of his sons would have to grow up lonesome as he did. Mrs. Evers, now, she had a sister, but she died when we was kids. No other kin that I know of."

"Then it seems I have a decision to make. With the inheritor deceased, and no known next-of-kin for the inheritance to pass on to, it will be up to this court to decide what to do with Mr. Grant's estate."

Cal said, "May I make a suggestion?"

"Certainly."

"We all know Grant Evers bought most of that land from folks who were…" Cal paused. He wanted to find just the right word, since Judge Fennis was probably still being paid by the other cattlemen around Abilene to be favorable toward them. "Folks who weren't all that eager to sell," he finished finally.

"We know that, do we?"

"Well, let's say we suspect it. I propose that if any of those original owners are still in the area, we give them the opportunity to buy their land back. At the price Grant paid. Put the money toward the new school building or some such worthy cause."

"Interesting. And the rest of the land?"

"Divide it into sections and auction it off." That would at least give folks a chance to keep one or two big ranchers from grabbing all of it.

"You're saying the town of Abilene owns this land, in the absence of any other beneficiary?"

Cal wasn't about to be scared off by a two-dollar lawyer word like that. "I'm saying no one owns it, but there ought to be some way for those that were convinced to give up land they wanted to keep – for them to get it back and start over."

"And what about those who sold and moved away? Should we just hold onto their land until they can be found and given the chance to buy their land back too?" Judge Fennis sat back and folded his hands over his midsection.

"Not if they're hard to find. Seems to me this needs to be settled soon, before Grant's men decide the land is theirs."

"Perhaps it is. Perhaps that would be the best plan - to let his men take over the ranch. After all, they've been working it. Don't they have a right to it?"

"They could bid in the auction same as anyone else."

Judge Fennis shook his head. "I suggest you stick to sheriffing and leave the tricky legal problems to me. I'm sure I can come up with an equitable solution."

Cal said, "With all due respect, we need a solution that's not just equitable. We need one that keeps Abilene from burning to the ground. And that's just liable to happen if the farmers—"

Judge Fennis waved his hand back and forth as if shooing away Cal's pesky ideas. "Yes, yes, I'll keep that in mind, Sheriff." He folded up Grant's will. "I'll be sure this is filed properly."

Cal reached over and took it so quickly the judge didn't have time to try to keep it from him. "Don't trouble yourself, Your Honor. I'll file it myself. You just get to thinking real hard on how to divvy up everything. Nice and legal, of course." He pushed past Frobisher and Ward and on out into the street, where the sunshine could cleanse him of the shadows of corruption that lurked in Judge Fennis' lair.


	4. Chapter 4

**Scene 7**

Suspiciously, the judge eyed Ward Kent, who was still standing in his office, turning his hat around in his hands. He wasn't particularly fond of him. The boy had obviously no proper education, no manners, and he liked playing cards with the farmers and the cowhands and acting the clown. His qualifications to be deputy sheriff were highly dubious, apart from the fact that he was willing. And he was very young - twenty? twenty-two maybe? - and acted even younger than his years. "What do you want? The sheriff has left already, in case you haven't noticed."

Ward spat his chewing tobacco accurately into the spittoon next to the judge's desk. He leaned his long frame against the doorpost. "Oh, I've just done me some thinking."

The judge looked even more skeptical. He considered Ward to be an intellectual bantamweight. "And that's important enough to delay me?"

"Maybe. See, your Honor, I'm not sure if your decision in this affair meets your usual standard of wisdom."

"Eh?" The judge hadn't even realized that the deputy knew words like 'standard' and 'wisdom.' Was this rascal cracking jokes on his expense?

Ward had heard Cal's plea for justice, and he found it reasonable. But obviously it hadn't convinced the judge. Maybe he needed some more solid arguments. "Well, see, your Honor - maybe you remember how the farmers took Cord Decker's death. They wanted to see blood. What do you think they'll do when they hear you're handing the Evers land over to his hired hands? They may want to see blood again."

"That's exactly why we have a sheriff. And a deputy. It will be your job to keep them at bay." And he had to admit that Cal Wayne and even Ward Kent were quite good at their job. The folks liked them, and they trusted them. Wayne was a strong, trustworthy upholder of the law. Why they trusted Kent was less obvious. Maybe it was just because he was their drinking and poker buddy.

Ward shook his head in a somewhat doubtful manner. "Well, you see, your Honor, some of them lost their livelihoods. An unversed feller like me won't be able to keep them back for long, and the pay's not good enough to risk my life for it. I intend on leaving town, and I heard Sheriff Wayne has similar ideas, for whatever reasons. And whose blood do you figure they will want to see then?"

The judge knew very well whose blood they would want to see. He glowered at this upstart who dared threaten him. "You wouldn't dare do that!"

"Well, Judge, if you were in my shoes, what would you dare do?" At that, Ward turned to leave.

This ragamuffin was right! "Wait, deputy!"

"Yessir?"

The judge dry-swallowed. "What do you suggest?"

Ward barely managed to suppress a grin at the judge's about-face. Then he thought that there was actually no reason to grin. This decision was too important for too many people. Lives might depend on it. "You heard what the sheriff said. You best get to thinking it over." Quietly, he opened the door and left.

* * *

**Scene 8**

Cal took his time walking back to the office. What could Ward have to say to the judge? Especially that took this long to say? Cal looked back to the judge's door at the side of the courthouse just in time to see his deputy exit, hat in hand.

On the other side of the street, Annie Decker was trying to tether her team to the hitching post in front of the dry goods store. One horse was restless and kept jerking its head back, making it hard for her to loop the leather reins over the wooden post. While her attention was on the rebellious horse, she couldn't see her little son climb out of the wagon seat, down the wheel, and begin to wander off.

Just as Cal was about to call across the street and warn the widowed Mrs. Decker of her son's actions, he saw Ward stride across the street, past the horses, and straight to the little boy. He scooped him up before the child could get into any mischief.

Cal couldn't have been more surprised if Ward had appeared wearing a shiny top hat. Ward, the great horse-lover who was unable to pass an animal without stopping to caress it - he not only didn't stop to quiet the restless horse, but he instead picked up the little boy? Not the solution Cal had expected when he saw Ward cross the street. And he not only picked him up, he threw him up into the air and caught him again as he walked back to Mrs. Decker. The child giggled happily.

Something about that laugh reminded Cal of the boy's father, Cord Decker. He was open, friendly, still just a boy himself when Cal had left to join the Confederate army. Cal remembered how proud Cord had been when he'd showed Cal a photograph of his son, the son he'd never met until he returned from the war. The son who would now have to grow up without his father, thanks to Grant Evers' hired hands. And Judge Fennis proposed handing Grant's land over to such men? Sure, Loop was long gone and Slade was dead, but many of those who remained were no better.

Meanwhile Annie had finished hitching up the team. When she turned around, Ward gently put the boy into her arms. Little Johnny Decker stretched his arms out to Ward, begging, "Moa! Moa!"

"All right, once more," answered Ward. He took the boy back, tossed him into the air, and caught him deftly. "Now I have to get back to work, young man, if I don't wanna get into trouble with my boss."

Annie smiled at him. "My thanks, Deputy."

"Anything to oblige, Ma'am!" He tipped his ragged hat to her, then headed to the office, where Cal leaned against the wall, waiting.

When Ward neared, Cal could see a smile lingering on his deputy's face. So Ward was sweet on Mrs. Decker! How long had that been going on? Cal said nothing until he and Ward were back in the office, but then he couldn't help teasing him. "I never knew my deputy had so many talents. Could be we'll have to raise your pay."

"I won't argue if you do," answered Ward, but in truth he wasn't talking to Cal. His gaze drifted away, far away. Softly, he went on, "Must be awful tough to get married and then not to see your husband for two years, and then lose him right after he's back. And poor Johnny, having to grow up without a father. A good father's the best thing a boy can have."

"Did you have a good father, Ward?"

"I did."

"What about your mother?"

"She died when I was born."

"No brothers or sisters?"

"No..." suddenly his look focused, and his expression changed back to his usual boyish, mocking façade. "Hey, why are you so nosy all of a sudden?"

Cal Wayne looked closely at the deputy. He'd never had any siblings either, but lately he'd found himself slipping into the role of Ward Kent's older brother. "You know, you might not scare quite so many women and children if you'd shave more often." Actually, now that he thought about it, Ward's square-jawed face wasn't ugly. Only his impossible clothing was. Of course it wasn't easy to find pants fitting those long legs, but maybe someone could sew some for him. The faded shirt had probably been red long ago, and part of a pair of long underwear, no doubt. But the former owner's arms sure had been a lot shorter than Ward's. And worst of all his vest... had it served as a carpet in its better days? Or exceptionally hideous curtains? Amy would know what to do. If Ward really did figure on courting Annie, Cal would help him any way he could. He knew Ward was a good man, steady and intelligent. Annie could do much worse.

Ward pulled a roll of chewing tobacco out of his pocket. Cal had noticed Ward reached for his tobacco pouch whenever he was uncomfortable or nervous. Even a great poker player like Ward had a few tells, if you watched close enough. Cal said, "Most women would rather kiss a coyote than a man who chews tobacco. Might want to give that up if you're thinking of catching the mother and not just the son."

Ward's poker face was perfectly back in place now. "I don't recall asking your advice."

"Suit yourself."

Ward walked over to the waste bin and dropped the pouch in.

"What did you pester the judge with?" asked Cal, changing the subject.

"I changed his mind."

"You did _what_?" A man of many talents indeed.

"Okay, I suggested he reconsider what you said."

"Well, I guess it's true what they say, then." Cal grinned. Maybe they had some chance of keeping Abilene peaceful after all.

"What's that?"

"Wonders never do cease."


	5. Chapter 5

**Scene 9**

Cal stood at the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, arms deep in a pan of warm, soapy water. He gave the mug one final swipe with the dishrag, then handed it to Amy to dry. The hope he'd felt at Ward's announcement earlier that day had faded. The hours had passed, and there'd been no word from Judge Fennis. Clearly, Ward hadn't changed the man's mind as much as he'd boasted.

Cal carefully picked up a china plate from the stack beside him and lowered it into the water. Amy's mother had brought those dishes with her all the way from Indiana, and he was determined never to break a single one. He'd even suggested to Amy that they keep them for when company visited, and use plain tin plates for their ordinary meals, but she'd insisted, and they were her dishes, so here he was, gingerly swishing them around in the dish pan every evening.

Not that Amy had ever asked him to be careful with them. She also hadn't asked him to help with the dishes. He liked to help her in the evenings. Liked the quiet companionship of cleaning up together, him at the sink, her walking back and forth as she put the clean, dry dishes back where they belonged. She'd smiled when he'd offered the first time. Almost laughed. Asked him what the townspeople would think if they knew Abilene's sheriff washed the dishes. Cal had laughed himself.

He didn't feel like laughing tonight. He could feel the tendrils of fear growing inside him. Small yet, but he knew they were there. He'd lived with fear long enough to recognize it as it slowly stretched out and up. Soon it would be curling around his heart, squeezing his lungs so he couldn't hardly breathe sometimes. If Judge Fennis gave the land to Grant Evers' hired hands or another rancher, he'd be proving to the farmers they could expect no justice of any sort in Abilene. There could be open war in the streets. Vigilantes riding the ranges again. They'd called the territory "Bleeding Kansas" back before the war, and he had no wish to see that nickname earned again.

One war had been enough for him. And he'd already lost too many friends to the farmer-rancher conflict. He had precious few left. Maybe the time had come to move on. He kept his eyes on his dishcloth as he said, "I've been thinking, Amy."

"What about?"

"Oh, this and that. California."

"California?" Amy stood still, halfway to the china cupboard. Cal could hear her turn around, the swish of her dark blue skirt as she pivoted to face him.

He kept his eyes on the dishpan, swirling the grey dishrag across another china plate. "California. Oregon." He pushed his lips together, trying to find the right word to explain without frightening her. "There's plenty of places we could be happy, Amy. Abilene ain't the end of the earth."

Amy turned again, moved to the cupboard, put the china plate down on its stack with a soft clink. She walked back to stand just to the left of Cal, leaning on the high wooden side of the sink to see his face. "I wondered when this would come up again."

"Can't hide much from you, can I?" He tried to laugh and failed.

"Is it the dreams? Do you think they'd stop if we moved away?"

Cal shook his head vehemently. "No. It's got nothing to do with that. It's…" He chucked the dishrag into the basin of water. A little spurt of water leaped up and sloshed over the side. He turned to face her, Amy, this woman of grace and strength who unaccountably stood by him no matter what kind of trouble clung to him. "They read Grant's will today. He'd left everything to Dave." Talking quickly now, he explained what he expected Judge Fennis would do, what would probably happen then.

Amy waited for him to finish, holding the dishtowel with both hands clasped in front of her, still as could be. When he'd run out of words, she said, "And you think leaving is the answer?"

"If your dad's willing, he could get a good price for this farm, I know he could. We'd take him along. Maybe Ward too."

"Ward?"

"He's mentioned leaving. Although… did you know he was sweet on Mrs. Decker?"

"Yes."

"I see."

"You disapprove? Annie Decker's a good woman."

"But Cord's been dead only a couple weeks." Of course, not everyone married the girl they'd grown up with, loved for so long it felt like always. Still, he was glad that Amy had waited more than a couple weeks after she'd heard the false report of his death before she took up with Grant. "Ain't that a little sudden?" He wondered again how long Ward had harbored an interest in Mrs. Decker.

"You weren't here, Cal. You and Cord Decker and the other men who went to war. You were gone a long time. Years. And Cord and Annie – they'd only been married a few months before he left. Then she had her baby, and the farm still needed tending. Only old Jarvis Bertram working for her, doing what he could to plow and plant and harvest a handful of acres. We helped where we could, everyone did, but… What if Cord didn't come back? So many didn't come back, Cal."

"Are you saying Ward and Annie—"

"There was nothing between them, Cal, I'm sure of that. Until now, I didn't know anyone but a few of Annie's friends had even noticed Ward taking an interest in her. Still, when he came to town, he was about the only young man around who wasn't riding the range. I imagine she must have seen him as…" She hesitated, turned away. "If the man doesn't come back, a woman has to find a new way of living, of keeping herself and those who depend on her. And while she's waiting for her man, is it wrong for her to look around and figure out which man she might not mind so much if she had to move on?"

Cal swallowed. All the time he'd spent focusing on himself, his nightmares, the trouble between the ranchers and farmers – why hadn't he seen Amy might need reassurance that he didn't hold her engagement with Grant against her? She'd believed he was dead, waited for two years, let time heal her grief as much as she could before she took up with Grant. He could see that, but did she know he understood? When he'd gotten back, he'd told her he wasn't upset, said so many, many things… lied. Said he didn't still love her, told her to be happy with Grant, told her so many lies.

The time had come to be honest. "I never thought of it, Amy. How it is to be a woman, waiting. Nothing she can do but wait." Folks looking at her, talking about her. Amy hadn't had many choices, not like a man would if his woman died. Couldn't take whatever job suited her, change her life by just riding on out of town. It was either live with her broken father, growing lonelier with each passing year, or move on. He took the towel she held and dried his hands on it, slowly and thoroughly.

"No," he said, looking her in the eye. "No, I don't think that would be wrong. Just looking, just thinking of the future." He put the towel down and took Amy's hands in his own. "And once her man is dead, a woman can't waste her life grieving, either." He pulled her close and put his arms around her. She slid her arms around his waist and nestled her head on his shoulder. "We don't owe the dead anything, Amy. Except maybe remembering them now and then. But it's the living that we got to care for."

Something inside him melted away as he stood there in the kitchen. An unpayable debt he'd burdened himself with, told himself he could never be rid of. He'd tied Dave Evers' death around his neck like that millstone the Bible spoke of. But he could see now he didn't owe Dave anything. Dave was dead, and nothing Cal ever did could change that. But he could live his own life, even if Dave didn't get to live his. He was sure Dave would have agreed.

* * *

**Scene 10**

As Cal was saddling his horse the next morning, Amy joined him in the stable, her arms full of folded clothing. "What's all that?" he asked as he checked the cinch strap to be sure it was securely buckled.

"Some of Grant's old clothes, for Ward. If he's going to court Annie Decker, he needs to stop looking like a scarecrow." Amy tucked the clothing into Cal's empty saddle bag, the side that didn't hold his lunch.

"I'm sure he'll be grateful." Cal took off his hat and kissed Amy's nose. "See you at supper."


	6. Chapter 6

**Scene 11**

Cal grinned when his deputy came out from the back room, newly clothed. Ward looked like a whole new man in the dark brown trousers and pale blue shirt. "Only one problem with those duds," Cal said solemnly.

"What's that?" Ward checked to see if he'd missed a button.

"I don't know if Mrs. Decker will recognize you now."

"Mrs. Decker?" Ward frowned, playing innocent.

Cal snorted. "Wouldn't kill you to get a new hat, either."

"It might." Ward pointed at his ragged, shapeless hat hanging on the hat tree by the door. "That hat's been a good friend to me."

Before Cal could reply, someone flung the door open so hard it banged against the wall and bounced back. Sprague strode into the office, followed by Norton, then Nelson, Peters, and half a dozen more farmers.

"Wayne!" Sprague shouted. "You two-faced Johnny-Reb sidewinder. And here we thought you were on our side!"

Cal stayed seated at his desk, but held up his hands, palms out. "Now just hold on a minute here, Sprague. I'm willing to overlook the name-calling if you'll simmer down and tell me what's got you boys on the warpath."

Ward moved off to one side, slowly and casually, to where he could cover the men clustered in the doorway without Cal coming into his line of fire. He rested his hand on the butt of his pistol, but didn't draw.

"Don't you slick-talk me!" Sprague's hands were balled into fists, and his face was growing redder by the minute. "I shoulda known you was in the back pocket of those ranchers, same as the judge and all the rest. Why, you're no better than Joe Slade!"

Cal's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"We just learned that Judge Fennis is going to hand the whole ranch over to Evers' hired hands, that's what. And you're letting him. When you know darned well Evers got most of that land by pushing honest, God-fearing families off their farms and out of their homes. And you're just gonna sit there and—"

Cal leaned back in his chair and looked up at the tall farmer. "When you either shut up or talk sense, I'll listen. Until then, you have ten seconds to get out of my office."

Sprague started to say something, changed his mind, started to say something else, and changed his mind again.

Cal said, "Good. Now, I want you listen real good to what I'm about to say." He stood up and raised his voice. "I want all of you to listen. I'm not on the ranchers' side, and I'm not on yours either. I'm an officer of the law, and it's my job to keep the peace. That means stopping lawbreakers, no matter who they are. Now, I've been friends with some of you for a lot of years. I grew up here. Nelson, your boys used to play hooky with me. You remember the hiding you gave all four of us for missing three days of school in a row?"

Nelson rubbed a hand over his grey mustache. "Reckon I do, Cal."

"Abilene is my home, same as it's yours." As Cal said it, he realized this was true. He couldn't leave, couldn't pack up and move to California or Oregon or anyplace else. Not unless he had no other choice at all. "But I've got to uphold my sworn duty. So if you come in here peaceful-like with a complaint, I'll hear you out. But if you come in here calling me and my deputy names and making threats, I just might have to throw some of you in a cell to cool off."

Sprague muttered something and glared at Cal, but the other men nodded, looking contrite and cooperative.

"That's better." Cal sat back down behind his desk. "It's true Judge Fennis has opened Grant's will. I was there when he read it. So was Ward."

Several farmers seemed to notice Ward for the first time. They nodded to him, looking a little sheepish that they'd behaved so unreasonably.

"The truth is, Grant left everything to his brother Dave. Seeing as how Dave's dead, I suggested he do just what you seem to want – that anyone who was pushed off their land should have the chance to get it back. Far as I know, the judge hasn't made a decision one way or another yet."

Sprague said, "And when he does decide?"

"Then I'll have to uphold his decision. Whatever it is." Cal crossed his arms. "I don't make the laws, I just make sure they're obeyed. You all know that."

"You'd better hope he decides the way he ought to." Sprague turned to leave, only to discover his followers now blocked his way out. "Well, you heard Sheriff Wayne. Nothing for us to do but wait."

Ward closed the door behind them and leaned back against it. "I got a favor to ask you."

"What's that?"

"Figure out a way to bottle some of that charm of yours. We could make us a fortune selling it."

* * *

**Scene 12**

Only two days later, Annie Decker came into town again. The last couple of weeks, she'd found more and more reasons to make the trip. As she drove her wagon past the sheriff's office, she couldn't help glancing over, just to see if that chair outside the door was occupied.

Most people thought that Ward Kent was a pretty crude chap, and his ragged appearance did nothing to change their minds. Yet she knew that he was kind and thoughtful, even though he didn't show that side of himself to most people. She knew well that behind the nonchalant façade, there was something else entirely. During the time Cord was away, he had been one of the most helpful people, lending a hand during the harvest whenever he could get away from his work, or fixing things in the house during the winter. He'd tried to pretend that he was just like any neighbor, but she wondered if he may actually be the one in need: an overgrown boy who needed warmth and friendliness. He had never made any romantic overtures to her, but always respected her as the wife of a man gone to war. When she'd lost Cord, she had wondered if Ward would make any attempt to court her. So far, he had kept a friendly distance. Was he simply biding his time until it would seem proper for him to pay his respects? Or had she misinterpreted his actions?

Annie had loved Cord when she married him, and she still mourned him. But they had both been very young then, and the times they were separated were much longer than the ones together. Now she needed a father for Johnny, a man to make the farm prosper. And, to be honest, it had been some time since she had started to feel something more than gratitude toward Ward Kent, the sheriff's deputy with hidden depths. He certainly did get along well with Johnny. She hadn't expected that at all.

Annie turned her attention to her team, forcing thoughts of the future to the background as she steered the horses past a buggy hitched up outside Doc Caswell's hospital. With old age, her big piebald gelding wasn't getting any easier to handle. Today, no nice deputy was around to help her. "Johnny, you stay in the wagon until I come and get you, is that understood?" She set the brake, looped the reins around the brake handle, then climbed out to hitch up her team. When she unlooped the reins and pulled them forward, the piebald gelding jerked its head away and tried to back up. The bay mare snorted and began to move backward too. Together, they pushed the wagon back several feet before Annie could stop them.

She spoke soothingly, firmly, tried not to let them know how annoyed and worried she was by their behavior. Once they had settled down somewhat, she began guiding them back toward the hitching post outside the mercantile.

Annie had almost gotten the team back to the hitching post when half a dozen cowboys came whooping into town from the south, their horses galloping two abreast. Pedestrians ran for the sidewalks. One of the cowboys fired several shots into the air. At the sudden noises, Annie's gelding tried to rear up in his traces. He yanked the reins from her hand and lurched sideways, pulling the mare with him. Annie grabbed at them and missed, and together her team turned and clattered away, gaining speed as the wagon straightened out behind them.

And Johnny was still in the wagon bed, clinging to the side, his eyes round, his mouth open. Annie screamed, "Johnny! Hang on!" She ran after the wagon, desperate to catch up, to rescue her son.

Inside their office, Cal and Ward had heard the ruckus of the cowboys and started out to follow them and explain the town's rule about guns. Once outside, Ward saw Annie running down the street after her wagon. It looked like that piebald monster of hers had bolted, and he saw in an instant that little Johnny was still in the wagon.

Ward took the first horse he came to, a big black hitched outside the barber shop next door to the sheriff's office. He didn't recognize the horse, but he'd just have to smooth things over with its owner later. The stirrup leathers looked much too short for him, so Ward didn't bother with them. He unlooped the reins and threw them over the horse's head, grabbed the saddle horn in both hands, and swung on. His feet found the stirrups, he gave the horse a good kick, and set off on a gallop, his knees up so high he felt like a circus monkey riding a dog.

Cal watched Ward ride off after the runaway team and wagon. Once Annie Decker saw that Ward was chasing the wagon, she stopped running and stood still in the middle of the street, watching, one hand over her heart. Cal started toward her, thinking if those rowdy cowhands came back down the street, they'd likely run her down where she stood.

Before he'd taken five steps, a stranger came out of the barber shop. He wore a brown three-piece suit, with a white shirt and high starched collar. A matching brown bowler hat rested on his head at a jaunty angle. "I say," the stranger said in a distinctly British accent, "did that fellow just steal my horse?"

"No," Cal said. "That man there is my deputy, and he's only borrowed your horse." He looked up the street again, and saw that some concerned female citizen was leading Annie to the sidewalk, an arm around the young widow's shoulders.

"Is that a usual practice for officers of the law out here?" The man was about Cal's age, and at least two inches shorter.

Cal tried not to smile. "Not as a rule, no. But you see, he's chasing that runaway wagon. There's a little boy in it." He pointed to the fast-disappearing wagon kicking up dust beyond the edge of town. He wondered if he should grab a horse and follow Ward. A runaway team could take more than one man to catch and calm, even if that one man was Ward Kent, with his uncommon way with horses.

"Oh, well, in that case, I suppose I can't object." The stranger smiled and held out his hand. "Henry Grey, at your service."

Cal shook his hand. "Sheriff Wayne. Thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me…" He started off down the sidewalk toward four horses hitched outside a saloon. He could borrow one of those and go after Ward and the runaway team.

One the opposite side of the street, Rod Sprague came around the corner, angry as usual. Cal often wondered how Sprague managed to keep his farm running, since he seemed to spend more time in town than anywhere near his farm. Of course, he had Smoky and a few others working for him. Sprague's farm was about as big as some of the ranches in those parts, truth be told.

Sprague hollered, "Sheriff! What're you going to do about this?" He strode across the street, paying no attention to a rider who had to pull up abruptly to avoid hitting him.

Cal waited until Sprague reached him before asking, "About what?"

"You know what. Those cowboys riding through here like a tornado, endangering people's lives, frightening people's horses. And flagrantly ignoring your gun law. Just like those high and mighty cattle men think they're above all our laws."

Cal sighed. "First of all, it's not my gun law, it's the town's law."

"Well? What are you going to do?" Sprague demanded.

"It's just possible they're new in town, Sprague. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get on a horse and help my deputy stop that runaway team from killing a little boy."

Sprague looked at him like he'd eaten loco weed for breakfast. "And leave those cowboys armed and dangerous, roaming the streets?"

"Abilene was chock full of armed cowboys until a few months ago."

"And that's why we all wanted you as sheriff, Cal. To take care of problems like this."

Cal sighed. By this point, that runaway team was so far away, he probably wouldn't reach it before Ward had them calmed down anyway. "All right, Sprague, how about you and I go on down to the corrals and find those cowpokes, and you can help me explain how things are."


	7. Chapter 7

**Scene 13**

Ward followed the two bolting horses and the wagon out onto the prairie, whispering friendly-like into the black horse's ear that Ward needed all his speed. This mess wasn't the horse's fault after all. The horse seemed to understand and gave everything.

Johnny was still hanging on - for how long, though? Ward was a good rider, but how could he slow down the frightened horses? He decided to try to jump over onto the wagon, which was a risk at this high speed. Ward wasn't exactly a circus performer, or even a rodeo rider. Fear squeezed his heart like a vice. He wasn't afraid of getting hurt, but afraid of failing. It was a situation he could not control, and that's what scared him to no end. But he had to do it.

He pulled his feet out of the stirrups, jumped. At the same instant the wagon bumped over a rock, and Ward hit the wagon's side. He managed to grab it with one hand, but his body bounced off, and he couldn't hold on. Somersaulting several times he came to a stop on the rough ground. Dazed he lay motionless for a moment. Yet he had to get up again. The horse might have gone back to Abilene... but no, it was standing not far away, looking down to him. "Blackie, come here, please, I need you!" Ward called softly, knowing well that he mustn't frighten it. To his surprise, the horse obediently trotted down to him. Ward mounted again, with much less elegance this time. The horse didn't seem to mind.

Annie's horses had won quite a head start again. Ward followed them at high speed. "Lord, let Johnny stay in the wagon! Don't let him fall, don't do this to Annie! Good Lord, let me find a way to save him!"

Ward realized that he was praying. He realized that it wasn't true that he didn't want to believe in HIM. HE was the only one who was able to help him – not only now, but always. "Lord, it's not for me. I don't deserve any of your mercy. But I know that you are merciful. Save this child. Don't take Johnny from his mother. I trust in your power, Lord!"

Thanks to the willing black horse, Ward closed the gap yard by yard. Suddenly much calmer, he considered his possibilities. Maybe he should try to calm the wagon horses. They showed signs of fatigue when he caught up with them. He started to talk to them, and at least they didn't panic more. He managed to draw even with them, and edged the black horse closer and closer until he could grab the reins. It didn't need much pulling to slow the team down. Finally Ward turned to Johnny, concerned. The little boy looked up to him and nodded earnestly, "Fast, eh?"

Ward couldn't help laughing. "Yeah, my friend, that was fast! A little too fast for my liking. Let's get you back to your mother!"

He tethered the borrowed black horse to the wagon, thanking him formally, then took the wagon's reins and headed back to Abilene, the kid safely beside him on the seat and a silent thanksgiving prayer in his heart.

* * *

**Scene 14**

When Ward returned to town, Annie was nervously awaiting him. He stopped in front of the nearest hitching post, handed the toddler down to his mother, then climbed out of the wagon, and tied the horses safely, warning them softly, "Now you stay here, you two, will you? Honest, life is a lot easier for all of us when you behave!"

Overjoyed Annie hugged her son. Little Johnny didn't understand why her tears were suddenly wetting his cheeks.

"Deputy, how can I ever thank you for rescuing Johnny?"

"You could... you could..." _allow me to take care of both of you… for the next fifty years or so. _No, that wasn't the right thing to say, not like that. He looked down at her, trying hard to restore his poker face, and made another attempt at the difficult sentence. "You could invite me for dinner tonight. This rescue business makes a man mighty hungry."

Annie smiled up at him. "I would be happy to cook something nice for you."

Had she guessed what he was thinking? Well, it didn't matter. If that dinner went well, he might just work up the courage to ask if he could call on her more often.


	8. Chapter 8

**Scene 15**

Ward left reluctantly. He'd much rather have stayed with Annie Decker, but he needed to return the horse he'd borrowed. He untied it from the back of Annie's wagon and led it back toward the barber's shop, where he discovered a short man wearing a new-looking brown suit who was watching him closely.

Ward stopped in front of him and held out the horse's reins. "Thanks."

"Thanks?"

"For loaning me your horse." Ward gave the stranger one of his best I'm-harmless-and-helpful smiles. "I should have asked first, but those runaways didn't give me time." He handed the reins over.

"I'm glad I could help." The man smiled back and held out his hand. Ward noticed he had a funny accent, maybe foreign. "Henry Grey."

"Ward Kent." Ward shook his hand.

"How is the boy?"

"Oh, a little rattled, but he'll be fine."

"That was a brave thing you did, Deputy."

"I was on hand, that's all." Not so brave, considering all the praying he'd been doing. Praying to a God he'd tried so hard to ignore all these years, but who obviously hadn't ignored Ward in return.

Before Henry Grey could reply, Nelson drove up in his farm wagon, all steamed up as usual. "Ward," Nelson demanded, "is that another one of these blasted cattle barons?" He pointed at Grey. "We need more of them like we need more toothaches!" His angry voice spooked the black horse. Grey's grip around the reins wasn't firm enough, and the horse jerked free.

"Blackie, please!" begged Ward, all friendly-like. "Come back! That wasn't addressed to you!" Then, reproachfully, he said to Nelson, "You should know better than to shout around a spirited horse like this one." He held out his hands toward Blackie and walked very slowly in his direction, speaking softly in the soothing sing-song that rarely failed to charm horses.

Blackie seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he turned around and trotted back, not to his owner but to the tall man with the soothing voice.

Henry Grey looked up at Nelson, where he sat on his wagon seat. "As it so happens, I am not in the cattle business."

Nelson mumbled something into his droopy mustache and drove away.

"How come that animal listens to you better than to me?" Grey wanted to know.

Ward nodded thoughtfully. "A horse likes it when you ask him instead of just ordering him around. Most people do too, I expect."

As if to confirm that he agreed with Ward, the horse whickered softly and bumped its nose against Ward. Ward stroked his glossy face and reached up to scratch around his ears.

"You mean – I should _ask_ my horse if it would deign to carry me to the next city?"

"Him, yes. Give it a try. What's there to lose?"

Blackie snorted, then raised his head suddenly and grabbed Ward's hat with his teeth. He pulled the hat from Ward's head and waved it up and down.

Ward laughed. "Gimme that, you clown!" He snatched at his hat, got ahold of the brim, and pulled. To his chagrin, the hat ripped into two pieces.

"Oh, I do apologize!" Henry Grey said. "I can't imagine why he did that. I have never seen a horse behave that way."

"He's just playing, is all." Ward looked at what remained of his hat and shook his head "Cal said I oughtta get rid of this. I guess Blackie agreed." Ward looked around, wondering where Cal had gone.

"If you're looking for the sheriff, I heard him say he was going to the corrals. Something about those cowboys who caused the trouble, I gathered."

"Thanks." Ward spun on his heel and hurried toward the stock yards down by the train depot, ruined hat forgotten in one hand. As usual, Cal wouldn't be armed, and if those cowboys were full of liquor, not just high spirits, he could be in for some real trouble. With things running so ugly between ranchers and farmers, all it would take was something like some cowboys stampeding a farmer's wagon to touch things off. If Judge Fennis didn't make a decision soon, there was no telling what might happen.

Then he saw the sheriff up ahead, striding back into town from the stockyards. He had several leather gun belts slung over his shoulder, two pistols tucked into his belt, and another in his left hand.

When Cal neared, Ward remarked, "Busy morning."

"Surely has been. You feel like being useful?"

"Don't I always?" Ward gestured toward the guns still tucked into the four holsters. "Those loaded?"

"I didn't stop to look."

"Right." Ward carefully pulled out one pistol, flipped the cylinder open, and spun it slowly to let six cartridges slide out into his open palm. He tucked the pistol back into its holster and repeated his actions with the other three. "There," he said when he'd finished. "Now you won't shoot yourself in the foot, anyway."

"Much obliged."

Ward crammed the handful of cartridges into his pocket. Not his favorite way to carry live rounds, but he'd just have to be careful.

"I take it you caught the wagon?" Cal started walking again.

Ward fell in beside him. "No, I got tired and gave up," he said sarcastically.

Cal snorted. "Sure you did."

* * *

**Scene 16**

When they reached the office, they found Frank Norton pacing in front of the door. "Where in tarnation you been?" he exclaimed when he saw them.

Cal asked, "What's happened?" He opened the door and nodded for Norton to go inside.

"We ain't got time to sit and chat, Sheriff," Norton insisted.

Cal handed the gun belts to Ward, who took them inside. "What's happened?" Cal asked again.

"It's those hands still working the Evers place. They went to Judge Fennis, they're holed up with him at his house. Said they won't leave until he turns the ranch over to them legally. They got a new foreman, Carruthers. Sounds like he aims to control the whole outfit."

"They're holding the judge hostage?"

"That's about the size of it."

Ward came back outside, Cal's black gun belt in his hand. "You want this?" he asked Cal.

Cal frowned. He rubbed his hands together, eyeing the pistol in his holster. "No. No, I don't want it." Before Ward could protest, he added, "If I need it, I know where to find it. Fennis's house ain't that far."


	9. Chapter 9

**Scene 17**

Judge Fennis lived a block away from Main Street, in the wealthy section of town. As Abilene had prospered, its leading citizens had taken it upon themselves to build homes that reflected their ideas of their own importance. Although widowed, with his children long moved away, Judge Fennis still lived in a stately two-story house with a wide veranda.

Cal, Ward, and Frank Norton approached cautiously. The farmer hung back behind the two lawmen, unwilling to get too close to danger, but too curious to stay away. They cut through the yards of two houses standing across the street from the judge's house, and stayed in one house's shelter to get a good look at the situation.

A cowboy sat in a chair beside the judge's front door with a rifle resting across his knees. From their shadowy vantage point, Cal and Ward could see another armed cowboy leaning on the wall beside the side entrance. That seemed the extent of the guards, but it showed them that Evers' hands meant business, that taking Judge Fennis hostage had not been a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Cal said, "I'll go in. Ward, you stay out here. If you hear a ruckus…"

Ward said, "That's the dumbest idea you ever had. No offense."

"Could be. But those boys have got to know I don't go armed. They ain't likely to shoot me down in broad daylight."

"No. They'll just take you hostage too."

"Then you can raise a posse and rescue us both." Cal walked away from the house before Ward could stop him. He stepped into the sunlight, hands away from his sides, palms forward, showing clearly he was unarmed. "You on the porch," he called out. "Where's Carruthers?"

The guard stood up and aimed his rifle in Cal's general direction, but didn't raise it to a firing position. "Inside."

Cal walked slowly across the street, hands still lifted. "Mind asking him to come out? I'd like to speak to him."

The guard looked around the street. "You wanna talk to Carruthers, you can come inside. He ain't keen on getting shot."

"Neither am I." Cal stopped at the foot of the veranda steps and tilted his head back to look at the guard.

"You ain't armed, Sheriff. You got nothing to worry about."

"That's sure reassuring." Cal licked his lips, considering. Once inside, he'd be beyond all aid. Ward was right that they'd likely just hold him hostage too. But he wasn't doing any good out in the street either.

He thought briefly of Amy. A week wasn't real long to be married - be a shame if she got widowed right off.

The guard asked, "What's it gonna be?"

"Seems I got no choice, do I."

"Oh, sure you've got a choice. You can turn right around and walk on out of here. Nobody invited you."

Then again, Cal thought, there were likely to be a whole heap of widows if the farmers and cowmen started another war. "Guess I'll come in." He took the steps slowly, making no move that might alarm the guard. It was cooler on the veranda, where its broad roof could cast shade through the whole day.

The guard moved sideways so he could cover Cal and the street both. He kicked against the door and yelled, "We got a visitor!"

The door opened, and a man inside motioned for Cal to enter. As Cal stepped over the threshold, he eyed the man, noted he was clean-shaven, with curly dark hair beginning to recede from his forehead.

The man grinned, and there was nothing friendly in that grin, just a mean satisfaction. "Welcome, Sheriff Wayne. I don't believe we've met." He held out a hand.

Behind Cal, someone closed the door. Cal took the man's hand. They exchanged a firm handshake, each obviously reluctant to appear the weaker man. "You must be Carruthers."

"You've heard of me, then?" Carruthers's voice squeaked strangely, as if he needed to clear his throat, or was recovering from an illness. "That's flattering."

"Yes, Frank Norton mentioned you not ten minutes ago." Cal kept his eyes on Carruthers, trying to size him up while taking in the rest of the room with his peripheral vision. Two cowboys here in the front room, stationed by the window, and no sign of the judge. "Say, you mind if I put my hands down? You can see I ain't armed."

"Sure, sure, go right ahead." Carruthers hadn't stopped smiling, which Cal found a bit unnerving.

"Thank you." Cal lowered his arms and rubbed one gloved hand inside the other. "I expect I'd like to see Judge Fennis now."

"Of course. He's in his office. Here, I'll take you." Carruthers led the way down the dim hall to a door at the back of the house. He rapped three times, waited for the door open, then stood aside and gestured for Cal to walk in.

The judge's office at home was very unlike his office at the courthouse. That had been dark, dank, menacing. Here, a warm light from two ceiling-hung kerosene lamps shone on wooden paneling, dark red carpet, and a wall lined with crowded bookcases. A worn leather chair stood before a cold fireplace to the left of the door, with a small table beside it that held three books and an ashtray. Green paper shades were pulled down over two windows in the book-filled wall opposite the door, but golden afternoon sunlight sneaked in around their edges, providing more light than the lamps. The wall to the right of the main door also had a wooden door, and Cal wondered briefly where it could lead. No one was guarding it from inside, so likely it went to the servants' stairs or some such thing belonging to a rich man's house. The only guard was perched on the corner of a sturdy desk beside the door. Someone had shoved all the judge's papers and things off the desk and onto the floor. An act of pure meanness, Cal thought. Carruthers showing the judge who was in charge, no doubt.

Judge Fennis sat on an upright wooden chair that looked very out of place in the comfortable surroundings. They'd probably dragged it in from the kitchen. When he saw Cal, he started to rise.

"Where're you going, Judge?" Carruthers circled around Cal and took a seat in the leather chair, where he could see Cal, Fennis, and the door. There was a rifle propped casually against the chair, within his reach. "We've got a visitor - wouldn't it be rude to leave right when the sheriff has come to call?" His unfriendly smile returned.

Judge Fennis glanced from Cal to Carruthers and back to Cal. He looked old, worn out. No longer the conniving menace he'd seemed only the day before.

Cal nodded to Fennis. "Afternoon, Judge. Seems we got ourselves a situation here."

"Looks that way."

Carruthers said, "It's very simple, Sheriff. The judge here needs to make a decision about that will Mr. Evers left. Once he does, we'll be on our way back to our ranch."

"Your ranch?"

"We worked long and hard for Mr. Evers. We deserve that ranch. I think the judge is real close to seeing that."

"You know, I've seen Grant Evers' will," Cal said. He moved toward the bookshelves. When he got close enough to read some of the titles, he was surprised to find they weren't law books at all. A black leather-bound set of William Shakespeare's plays filled almost an entire shelf, the gilt lettering on their spines worn from much use. Most of the other titles and names weren't familiar to Cal, but he pretended they were real interesting, even pulled one book off and opened it. When he turned around, the light from the windows was at his back, shining full on the three other men and leaving him a bit hard for them to see, as he'd intended.

Cal held up the book. "Jane Austen, Judge? Doesn't seem your style."

The judge turned in this chair. "That was my wife's. I'll thank you to put that back."

Cal made an elaborate show of replacing the book, then turned around again, light still to his back. "Like I said, I've read Grant's will. He left everything to his brother, not to you. Not to any of you."

"Ah, yes, his brother." Carruthers tipped his head to one side and studied Cal as best he could with the sunshine back-lighting the sheriff. Carruthers' green eyes struck Cal as cold, calculating. The foreman continued, "According to you, Dave Evers is dead. His claim on the land ends there. Who better to work that ranch now than Grant Evers' own employees? Men he hired, men he trusted."

"How about the people that land belonged to in the first place?"

Carruthers snorted derisively. "They sold out. They've moved on."

"Not all of them."

Carruthers shook his head. "You know how this will end. The Judge will sign the land over to us nice and legal, and you'll stay out of our way until he does. In fact, I think you and I have run out of things to say to each other." He stood, picking up the rifle as he rose. "Let's take a little walk, Sheriff. We've got a nice room upstairs where you can wait this out. Take a book with you, if you like." He smiled, gesturing toward the bookcases with his rifle.

"I'll do just that." Cal turned back to the shelves. As he did, he saw the side door open slowly, darkness filling the crack between the door and the wall. Whoever was over there was trying not to be noticed. Likely not one of the Evers ranch hands, then. Cal pulled a book from the shelf, a hefty volume from the Shakespeare set. He held it up, as if to show it to Carruthers for approval, then suddenly flung it toward him end over end like a throwing knife. Then Cal dove toward the guard by the door, hitting the floor and rolling against the guard's feet and the desk leg, knocking him off balance.

Carruthers had raised his rifle as soon as Cal made his throw, but the book struck the barrel and knocked his aim off. His shot went out the window.

Cal grabbed the guard he'd unbalanced and pulled him down, trying to wrestle the man's handgun out of its holster before the man could get it himself.

From the side door, Ward yelled, "Hold it right there!"

Carruthers fired toward him, and Cal heard Ward cry out. He was too busy trying to gain control of the guard's pistol to look around and see how bad his deputy was hit. The guard smashed his elbow toward Cal's head. Cal dodged just in time, one hand gripping the pistol butt now. He heaved against the guard with all his might and succeeded in shoving him under the desk. As he did, he heard Ward say, "Drop it right there," and knew from Ward's voice he wasn't hurt bad. He'd heard enough wounded men in the war to tell from a man's voice if he was dying or just hurt.

Cal yanked the pistol free of its holster and rose to one knee. He covered the guard with the handgun and looked over toward the fireplace.

Carruthers had his rifle pointed at Judge Fennis. He smiled once more, a cornered predator baring his fangs. "Bravely played, Sheriff. Bravely played. But since I've got the judge here in my sights, I think it'll be you and your deputy who drop their guns."

Cal rose to his feet and stepped out of the guard's reach. "You shoot him and you lose all hope of gaining control of Grant's ranch." He wanted to see what Ward was up to behind him, if he still had his gun or if he'd lowered it, where he was hit, but he couldn't chance taking his eyes off Carruthers.

The foreman shrugged. "With all the bullets flying around in here, who's to say the judge didn't get caught in the crossfire?" His grin broadened. "Who's to say you didn't?"

Cal lowered his pistol but didn't drop it. He walked forward, one deliberate step at a time, gaze locked with Carruthers'. When he reached the judge, he stepped between him and the rifle and stood still. "My deputy, that's who. You can kill me here and now, but he'll plug you like a tin can if you do."

The door to the hallway opened, and two men entered, guns drawn, but not pointed anywhere in particular. When the man in front saw their boss Carruthers pointing his gun at the sheriff, he stopped so quickly the man behind him bumped into him a little.

From over by the side door, Ward said, "Norton? Sprague? Come on in and even the odds."

Cal could hear movement behind him and figured Ward wasn't just bluffing, that he really had brought reinforcements. He kept looking Carruthers in the eye, waiting for any sign that the foreman was about to shoot or stand down.

No one moved. No one spoke. Cal had to remind himself to breathe now and then.

Then Judge Fennis stood up. "I've made my decision, Mr. Carruthers. You can put down your rifle."

"I take it you've made the right decision?" Carruthers sneered.

"I believe I have."

"Well done, Judge." Carruthers raised the barrel of his rifle until it pointed above Cal's shoulder instead of at his chest.

Cal put out his empty hand. "I'll take that rifle now."

"Sure, Sheriff. I'm glad we've come to an understanding." Carruthers smiled again as he let Cal take the gun.

Cal moved around so the fireplace was behind him. "You're under arrest for shooting my deputy."

Carruthers frowned. "Don't be a fool."

"I've spent a lot of years trying real hard not to be one." Cal motioned for Ward to come near. He was relieved to see Ward moving without too much pain - the bullet looked to have merely grazed his arm near the shoulder.

When Ward neared, Cal said, "Handcuffs?"

"Knew you was forgetting something." Ward handed over a pair of metal handcuffs, and Cal secured them around Carruthers' wrists.

Carruthers said, "I'll be out on bail before you get home to your supper."

Judge Fennis said, "I wouldn't be too sure of that. Not if I were you."

Over by the door, Sprague and Norton were relieving the cowboys of their guns. It sounded like someone outside was doing the same for the other guards.

"Once you hand over the ranch-"

"I never said I'd hand over the ranch."

"But you just said-"

"I said I'd made a decision. The right decision." Judge Fennis looked at Cal. "I'll make this official before the sun sets. Anyone with a bill of sale proving they sold their land to Grant Evers since the war started can buy it back. Fifty cents on the dollar. The rest of the land, we'll auction off. About time we built Abilene a bigger school house, don't you think?"

Cal breathed a silent prayer of thanks. Then he took Carruthers' elbow and started steering him toward the door. Time to lock him up and tend to Ward's arm.

The other cowboys looked like they couldn't decide if they should run away or try to stop Cal. He glared at them. "The faster you get on out of here, the less likely I'll be to round you all up and throw you in jail for kidnapping a judge." They shuffled to one side and let him pass, and Cal and Ward wasted no time escorting Carruthers out of the house, across the street, and safely into jail.

On the way out, Cal paused to speak to Norton and Sprague. "I know you'll want to spread the good news. But I'd be real appreciative if you didn't crow about it. No sense stirring up any more trouble with the cattle men."

Sprague looked like he wanted to argue, but Frank Norton nodded. "Right you are, Sheriff."


	10. Chapter 10

**Scene 18**

Cal closed the door that separated the jail from his office. Ward sat slumped in the chair beside his own little roll-top desk. "Let me take a look at that arm," Cal offered. He opened a cabinet and took out a white roll of bandages that Amy had cut from a worn-out bed sheet. She'd said she wanted him to have them on hand in case of trouble. Always thinking ahead, that woman. He rummaged in a desk drawer and found a pair of scissors too.

Ward said, "It's just a scratch."

Cal nodded. "Sure it is. I've dressed more than my share of wounds, and I promise I won't kill you since that bullet didn't. Or would you rather I go hunt up Doc Caswell?"

"I'm fine."

"Sure, and your shirt is fine too. You think Amy sent it over here just to have you get it shot full of holes?" Cal had meant it as a joke, but Ward looked conscience-stricken.

"Say, I hadn't thought…" Ward stood up. "I'll go change into a fresh one and get right to mending this one." He wobbled a bit, and Cal hustled over to steady him. Ward brushed him away. "I'm fine. Be right back." He headed for the jail, where he slept and kept his few personal effects.

Cal followed him, and it seemed Ward hadn't expected that, for when Cal walked through the door, Ward wheeled angrily, pulling his shirt back on, but too late. Cal had seen enough. He stepped back, startled. Thin white scars criss-crossed Ward Kent's back. "Ward?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Want to or not, I think you'd better."

"Just forget it, will you?"

In the farthest cell, Carruthers leaned up against the bars. "What'd I miss?" he leered. "Sounds like it must've been a sight to behold."

Cal grabbed Ward's good arm and pulled him back into the office. He shut the door firmly, pushed Ward into his desk chair, then grabbed his roll of bandages. He cut off a section, trying to figure if he should let this be or press for details. Only a couple weeks ago, Cord Decker had died from being horsewhipped, the handiwork of Joe Slade, the former sheriff. Slade had been Ward's boss. Was this why Ward had been so eager to work for Cal, shown no allegiance to his former boss?

Cal said, "You want me to bandage you up, or you gonna keep bleeding until the whole shirt turns red?"

"Fine." Ward eased out of his shirt. The bullet had left a crease just below where his arm met his shoulder, long but not deep. It was already starting to clot some.

While he pressed the bandage to the wound, Cal said, "So when you said you'd never seen anyone cut up the way Cord Decker was…"

Unexpectedly the deputy buried his face in his hands. His bony shoulders trembled.

Cal said no more. He wound more bandages around and around the cloth he'd pressed to Ward's arm. Then he snipped off the end, tied it neatly, and stepped away to put the pair of scissors back in the drawer.

Ward spoke at last, so softly Cal almost couldn't hear him. "I deserted."

Cal stood still, hand halfway to the drawer. Somehow, this didn't fit into the picture he had of his deputy. Finally, he said, "You never told me you was in the war."

"You got your secrets; I got mine."

"Except you know my secrets."

Ward took a breath and let it out slowly. It sounded like a sigh. "You know my mother died when I was born. My daddy was a travelling preacher. Took me everywhere with him. He taught me reading and writing and right and wrong. He was just what a father ought to be, I reckon."

Cal remembered seeing a well-thumbed Bible on Ward's bunk one day. This explained a lot.

The deputy went on, "He was killed when I was eight years old. It happened in some jerkwater town in Kentucky. I had no other kin, so a farmer took me on. He beat me when I did something wrong, and sometimes when I didn't, or so it seemed to me. I got to where I never knew what to expect next, never knew what to do or not to do, what would set him off. Mostly he used his belt, but this one day…" Ward took another deep breath. "His buggy whip was handy. I was fourteen. When I could think straight again, I decided I'd have to kill him. Couldn't stomach it, though. Ran off instead. Found work on farms here and there. Never stayed put long, especially when I thought I'd made a mistake. I've always been tall for my years, and when the war broke out, I was sixteen. I joined the Union Army. I'd met a nice guy. He was nineteen and said that I was his brother and eighteen. Nobody asked any questions.

"Then came Bull Run. We didn't know much of anything, but then nobody did. I got out without a scratch, but my friend was killed. He was the first friend I'd had since my father'd died. All that old uncertainty came back: Had I done something wrong? Could I have saved his life? I knew then I was no soldier. So I did what I knew how to do: I ran away again. Drifted farther and farther west until the day I walked in here. Slade found I was handy with a gun and amenable to taking orders from him."

Ward turned his head and looked at Cal for the first time since he'd started talking. "I keep telling you, I'm not worth a dime. Never was." He unpinned his badge and held it out to Cal. "I'll be moving on."

Cal reached out and took Ward's badge. He held it in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the silver star.

Ward pulled his shirt back on over the bandages and stood up. "Deputize Frank Norton, he'd do fine."

"No."

"What?"

"I said no." Cal held out Ward's badge. "I told you before - if I want this back, I'll ask for it. In case you haven't noticed, you did the right thing today. Twice. You knew what to do, and you did all right."


	11. Chapter 11

**Scene 19 **

Cal pushed his chair away from his desk. He'd finally finished writing his report on Carruthers' shooting Ward. Supper would be long over, and Amy wondering where he was, but he'd have good news for her when he finally got home. No war between the ranchers and the farmers. No need to sell her home or move away. He didn't want to be sheriff forever - he still intended to step down whenever Ward was ready to take his place. But for now, the farming could stay on the sidelines.

"'Night, Ward. You done good today."

Ward followed him out the door. "I'm heading to the livery stable too. Got an invitation for dinner, remember?"

Cal grinned. "Don't you think by now dinner's long cold and Mrs. Decker's putting Johnny to bed? Make your apologies tomorrow. Show her that arm of yours and she'll forgive you for certain."

"No," said Ward solemnly. "When I give my word to Mrs. Decker to come today, it's not gonna be tomorrow. Never."

Well, well, thought Cal, that was one determined young man! "Go on, then. Guess I'll stay here with the prisoner 'til you get back."

"I won't stay too long."

As Ward headed for the door, someone opened it from outside. Instinctively, the deputy's hand went for his gun. But it was only Henry Grey, the stranger whose horse Ward had borrowed earlier. In his hand, he held a handsome brown hat. "I'd like to thank you for helping me understand my horse," he said. "And I did feel so bad about your hat." He held out the one he held. "Would you accept this?"

Ward looked over at Cal. "Do you always get everything you want?" He grinned and took the hat. "Thank you, Grey. My head did feel a mite cold." He put the hat on and started out the door, then paused. "If you're looking for work, I hear the sheriff might need a second deputy. The first one's starting to feel powerful overworked."

Cal snorted. "Give a man a new hat and he thinks he runs the place."

Ward left as Grey asked Cal, "I say, Sheriff, was he on the level? I've never been a deputy, but I do have some qualifications…"

* * *

**Scene 20**

Although it was very late, Ward took a short detour on his way to the livery stable to get his horse Rattler. He first stopped by the church. There he knelt down and thanked the Lord for ridding him of his fear. He was not an anxious boy anymore, but a free man. No more hiding behind clownery or sarcasm. He could stand up straight – not because he deserved it, but because the Lord was merciful. It was what his father had been talking about: forgiveness, grace, and a life worth living.

As a free man, he could ask Annie Decker if she would marry him, and that's what he would do. Tonight, just as soon as Rattler could get him to her farm.

Ward spent that long, dark ride thinking about what he would say to Annie, about his love for her, about trying to make her happy, about wanting to be there for Johnny. A real speech. Usually he didn't have any trouble with words, but he wanted to do this right. Annie should know that he honestly wanted to be a good man for her, as good as an uncivilized fellow like him could be.

But when he rode up to the house and dismounted, he saw her standing on her porch as if she had been waiting for him. Had the news about the ruckus in town made its way out here already? If she'd heard he'd been wounded, had she been worried?

Ward dropped his reins, trusting Rattler to stay ground-tied. "Annie..."

She put out a hesitant hand and touched his arm below the tear in his shirt where the bandages peeked through. "I heard you'd been hurt."

_No, not really. For the first time in many years, he was healed._

He took off his new hat. "Annie..."

"I kept supper warm for you."

She'd expected him to come, late as it was. "Annie, I got to ask you..."

She stopped, halfway in the door. "Johnny's asleep. You'll have to whisper inside."

_The right words would not come! So be it._ "Annie, will you...?"

"Yes, Ward, I will."

"Marry me?" _How could she have known what he was about to ask?_

"Yes."

"Thank God. And thank you."  
Very tenderly, he took her hand and kissed it, feeling foolish for the old-fashioned gesture, but also feeling it was fitting.

And Annie knew that he didn't need any food, he just needed her.


End file.
